Black Widow
by I-love-u-long-time
Summary: It's exceptionally rare that a case ever left Sherlock Holmes bewildered, however, when a number of murders take place, it seems the great detective has finally met his match with the infamous Black Widow. Rated for violence/death and sexual reference
1. Prologue

**So I was watching The Texas Chainsaw Massacre when I thought that there really aren't that many female villains in the movies, so I thought up a character who would originally be a horror villain who attracts men and kills them, then I thought of a Black Widow killer who is just as clever, crafty and cunning as our dear Sherlock Holmes, and that is how I came up with this story. Also I absolutely love the movie, and I just saw Sherlock Holmes 2: A Game of Shadows (which is absolutely amazing! Just like the first :D). This is my very first Sherlock Holmes story, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. Also, seeing SH2 gave me the thought of the sequel, which I will starts as soon as this is finished.**

**Disclaimer - I don't own Sherlock Holmes or Watson (sadly :(), or anything from Sherlock Holmes, all of that belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and Guy Ritchie, I am merely playing around with the characters. I do however own Charlotte Cunningham and any other unfamiliar characters (so no stealing!)**

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><p>A single severed gash across his neck; that is all that was left of Lord Coward, newly released from prison by an unknown source, much to the chagrin of the man who placed him there. Thin threads of skin and flesh which remained intact had torn overnight as his dead corpse was left to rot in the street.<p>

This was not the first man to have been murdered in the streets of London, within five years six others were found, all wealthy men, all recently married, none lasting longer than a week after the wedding.

Mr Chamberlain, a man in his late forties who had found himself exceedingly lucky with the gamblers since his younger years, had been suffocated, his body found the following afternoon by his sister, already beginning to reek of sweat, body odour and the slowly strengthening stench of an old corpse.

Andrew Davies, the youngest of the victims and heir to his parents' small fortune, poisoned with an odourless and tasteless sedative.

Edward Harvey, an ageing designer of rather naughty lingerie, at first glance by an untrained eye appeared to have passed from natural causes; old age perhaps, though on further inspection was discovered to have been smothered.

A mid-aged stock broker, Jonathan Churchill, had met a similar fate to Mr Davies, however with a larger dosage of the poison.

William Rackham, the unwilling heir to a perfume business and lesser known writer's death had also been a difficult case, though hours of examining the body he was found to have had a highly lethal poison which painfully ate away at his insides.

And finally there was young Joseph Knightley, a handsome man who had been raised by his wealthy aunt and uncle after the deaths of his mother and father. Mr Knightley's death had been the most brutal and gruesome to date, having been bludgeoned repeatedly, before his throat was savagely cut, leaving the corpse an almost unidentifiable bloody wreck.

It was rare that a case would leave the great Sherlock Holmes bewildered, however in each of the killings there had never been enough evidence to name a culprit, other than the fact they had all been performed by one single woman; a notorious murderess nicknamed the Black Widow.

Luring helpless men with a newly adopted identity and a seemingly ageless beauty, she left the detective with nothing but a false name and a picture of a disguised woman who seemed to be impossible to trace.

She was an intelligent woman, out in the streets at least, that was made clear to the detective from the start. She knew what to take care of to remove all ties between herself and the crime, and that perplexed him, in his experience women were either highly respectable and proper people who would never commit such an atrocity which may tarnish their valued reputation, or living out on the street without the required cleverness to pull off the scheme. There was only one other woman he knew to be a world class criminal, the one woman who had been able to claim his heart and shatter it in two, though only he and Watson had known of that. However, she was well known to be far from London with her most recent husband. Even so she was not the sort to get rid of her husbands by way of death, she simply left the poor sod and gained a fair share of his wealth.

And so he looked over Lord Coward's blood splattered body, not necessarily expecting to find anything which could use as a means to put an end to the vile Black Widow. But at last he had been proven successful, with a feeling of relief which had built up from when he first laid eyes upon Mr Chamberlain, when he peeled back the collar of Coward's shirt. The woman had gotten careless, possibly her pride had preceded her to make her believe she no longer had need to check for remaining evidence, as she had failed to remove the single long dark strand of hair from his neck, and the feint hint of perfume on his clothes, the probable strong scent of rose, lavender and jasmine not yet expired.

"Watson, it seems as though our dear Coward has suffered a fate far worse than the gallows," the inspector announced with a powerful air of pleasured satisfaction, "However, even if our victim was a wretchedly despicable human being we still must find his killer."

"And thank them for doing us all a favour," Watson scoffed.

"And I believe I have discovered the path to their perilous end."

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><p><strong>So what'd you think? Like it? Didn't like it? Let me know what you think with a review. I'll be updating as often as possible, and I will do my best to keep the chapters nice and long :)<strong>


	2. Chapter 1

**So I really do hate our internet connection, always cutting out at the worst times, and then taking forever to work properly, ugh it's terrible! Anyway, enough of the ranting, because here's the very first chapter :D I really do hope to keep Sherlock IC, but it may be a bit difficult writing the somewhat romance/smutty delight with him. Watson on the other hand surely won't be hard at all to keep perfectly. Haven't gotten many reviews, but hopefully that changes soon, like before, please no flaming! Cuz really there must be a better way to spend your time than to insult someone over the internet...or maybe there isn't...Back to the point, reviews are definitely appreciated! Everyone who leaves one gets a cookie :P**

**Disclaimer - I don't own anything from Sherlock Holmes, I am merely playing around with the characters :)**

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><p>The mixed smell of sweat, blood and alcohol, as well as the sound of the roaring laughter of the drunken men and women hit Charlotte the second she stepped through the door to the old London pub. As the women that were usually found there were not the sort to be respected by the working class, a large number of them with yellowing teeth from smoking and drinking, while almost all were thought of as filthy harlots, it was of course inappropriate for a woman of a higher class such as Charle rotte. However, she was a strong willed woman, who knew how to protect herself if any of the men decided to become friendly with her.<p>

She made her way through the disorderly crowd, ignoring the slurred catcalls from a few of the men, and ready to strike if any should attempt to grab at her in an unsuitable manner as she pushed herself closer to the boxing ring. She paused for a moment, peeking over the shoulders of the men and women in front of her, merely watching as the man she had been pursuing fought against a second, much larger man.

She had seen him enter the pub earlier in the evening and had followed suit, although not for a short while so as not to arouse unwanted attention.

For a brief moment it seemed that she had caught his eye, which she responded with a haughty smirk, though it wasn't long before he was quickly drawn back to his current boxing match with as much ease as she was certain as when they had started.

She had often found herself wondering how he went by his cases; whether he had everything planned out beforehand, or if he just went with what was handed to him. But she quirked an interested eyebrow as he brought blow after blow upon the larger man, all placed perfectly as if he had indeed planned out not only his, but his opponent's every move. Before finally he was knocked to the ground with one last punch to the jaw and a hard kick to the stomach. Before continuing on her way and casually following him to the back of the pub, into a small room upstairs.

A wicked smile rose across Charlotte's red painted lips when she found him; he had his back to her, still without a shirt and cleaning himself of the sweat over his body.

"That was quite a show out there, Mr Holmes. Well done." He turned to her, clearly surprised to hear the unfamiliarly silken voice behind him, and see the young, raven haired woman walking towards him. He looked over her slender figure with a distrustful eye, taking in her appearance. She was certainly attractive, someone who was doubtlessly able to claim the average man's heart with a simple smile, and was clearly born into a higher class family, if not made obvious by her elegant black dress and neatly pinned hair, then by the confident manner in which she carried herself.

"How-"

A smirk crossed her when she interrupted him, "Did I know it was you? Research can take you a long way, if one has the intelligence to use it to one's advantage. It isn't difficult when the person you're searching for doesn't change their appearance either, say a certain scar or mark on someone's skin, or for your sake, hair and clothing. A common but foolish mistake."

"What does a woman such as yourself know of criminology?" he asked, somewhat childishly, beginning to take offense to her unruly attitude, but it was when he turned his back to her that she let out an amused chuckle.

"Quite a bit, actually. You could say it's a passion of mine."

"A likely story," he remarked over his shoulder, "Why is it you're here, dear hellcat?"

"I was hoping I could speak with you," she said, having lost an amount of her playful fashion,

"About?"

"Well, it's a rather sensitive matter," she murmured, making sure no one could overhear them before closing the door behind her. "It would be best spoken privately, over dinner perhaps."

"You expect me to agree to dinner, a private meeting if you will, between only yourself and I, regardless that but for a moment ago had no knowledge of your very existence," he scoffed, facing her once more, once he had fully dressed,

"Of course."

"How do I know it isn't some ploy to take my life once and for all."

"I assure you, I have no interest in seeing any harm brought upon you," a crooked grin then appeared over her youthful face, "However, since you obviously don't trust my word, you may wish to perform a search over my person when we meet?"

He didn't answer her, at least not for a time. He simply gave her one last scolding look before making to push past her. She didn't allow his difficult behaviour, and hurriedly blocked the door. "I have information that may help in the capture of this Black Widow." She spoke much more quietly now, and by the growing smile of satisfaction she had noticed that he had been taken aback, and for once, the outspoken (most often rudely so) detective was speechless.

"So it's agreed," she started, "I'll see you at 8:00. At the Royale."

Moments before she left him to his privacy she sent him an attentive smirk over her shoulder, raking her eyes over him, "And one other request, dear Holmes. Make sure to wash yourself properly before our little rendezvous."

Hours passed, in which Holmes spent continuously pacing back and forth within his study, and had only just now begun practicing his violin. Despite realising long before that he was unable to clear his mind of that appallingly boisterous woman. She had a definite intelligence, and a particular charm to confident approach, but with her rebellious and unpredictable mind he had seen firsthand the unruly creature she was. Immediately after meeting her he decided he found her tolerable, to an extent, but came to the final conclusion that he didn't like her. Holmes was a proud, vain man, who considered himself above all others because of his extraordinary talents, he could not have anyone insulting his well known worth, or even questioning the grandiosity it was.

The sound of each of Holmes' shrill plucks could be heard from downstairs, if only to irritate his companion as he continued to read the evening paper. Watson sighed, so far he had been successful in blocking out the unnecessarily loud playing instrument, until it had become significantly louder and he decided to go find what had his friend so dishevelled.

"Watson, I have found myself trapped in a relatively troubling situation."

"Of course you have," the doctor rolled his eyes, sending the older man a disparaging glower,

"I fear I may be playing into this woman's relentless game of cat-and-mouse, causing a persistent chase until the devious feline has caught its feeble prey."

"You have been drinking from my disinfectants again, haven't you?" Watson inquired with an accusing eye, while observing the various toxins scattered across Holmes' study, a fair few already emptied.

"I have drunk nothing more than what is necessary. Nevertheless that does little to relieve our predicament. I am not the sort to play with another man's fire, much less so when said man is of the female gender. Alas it appears we may have no choice but to make an appearance this evening, if not to humour the woman."

"What do you mean by 'we', Holmes? Judging by what you have told me you have organised tonight as a private gathering."

Holmes stared at his younger associate with a disapproving surprise, "Come now, Watson, did you expect me to go alone?" then, with a merry laugh, added, "Honestly, old boy, are you sure you know me at all?"


	3. Chapter 2

**Is there anything better than writing a Sherlock Holmes story, while watching Sherlock Holmes, and when it is finished listening to the movie's soundtrack? I don't think so! But god is it hard not to get distracted by Robert's sexyliciousness, especially when it comes to the handcuffed-naked-to-the-bed scene.  
>So this chapter is more of a backstory to the Black Widow and the killings before and including Lord Coward (who I definitely must admit, I certainly wouldn't kick out of bed ;)) but I'll let you go before risking the possible permanent mind scarring from my completely messed up mind lol, but not before an apology for this chapter's shortness and the warning that there are sexual references and implied sex (but do you really expect anything else in an M story?)<strong>

**Disclaimer - Sadly I don't own anything from Sherlock Holmes, I am merely playing with the characters**

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><p>Throughout London's crowded streets there have been an innumerable amount of tempting women, some catching the passing men's attention by the remarkably improper acts they promised to perform. Elizabeth Williams was a particularly enchanting seductress, the blonde, who had been no more than twenty, could have any man wrapped around her finger in a single night. Or, at least, that had been the case with Amos Chamberlain. She had captured the considerably older man's heart after meeting him in one of the many pubs he would spend hours on end inside, betting over fights and gambling over a fair few games of cards. After months of constant courting she had eventually accepted his proposal. On the day the poor man's sweat ridden (and naked) corpse was discovered in the newly wedded couple's bed, Elizabeth had received nearly all of Chamberlain's winning wagers from over thirty years. That night, she vanished without a trace, leaving everything but her most valuable possessions behind her.<p>

Daniella Hunter had been a popular catch, once she had risen upon the metaphorical ladder of hierarchy that is. The dark brown haired woman had once been a prostitute, one of the most treasured by those who would pay for such an act in fact, using Sugar as her second half. It did not take long for Andrew to fall for the charmingly sweet young woman; they had not known each other for even two months when they had married. He had been found on the bedroom floor, a shattered champagne flute beside his lifeless body and small spatters of blood under his lip. Again, the girl had left that night, catching the first train to Paris with the small (but generous) share of Mr and Mrs Davies' wealth.

Giselle Faulkner was the fiery, flirtatious and prominently sexual red haired daughter of a successful family in France, who had been sent to live with her brother when her parents had died. It was through him that she met Edward Harvey, who'd had a liking for independence and nonconformity, so naturally he was struck by her unladylike habits. He had been the second to have been found unclothed, and was found lying face up beneath the blankets of their bed, with his eyes remaining wide open. The brother had also disappeared along with her.

Jonathan Churchill had become quite taken by Clara Smith, a beautiful girl who performed in the streets with the gypsies, with fair hair of golden brown. The older, American born stock broker had been wandering through the streets with two of his colleagues when he had first seen Clara, and by the next few days he had become deeply smitten with her and her romantic beliefs.

Scarlett Turner, the black haired exotic dancer, often clad within a revealing dress or an outfit which appeared no different to the lingerie she may or may not be wearing beneath it, had been one of London's enchantresses with a rogue heart and a wide knowledge in the art of love and sex, and frequently taught the younger boys of the gift for a reasonable payment. Until she decided that her former lifestyle no longer interested her, and chose to use her talents for her soon-to-be marriage to William Rackham. His death had been fairly difficult to decipher, though after numerous hours it was found that he had been poisoned with a deathly poisonous toxin which had been injected into his neck during his sleep.

Mr Knightley had been enthralled by the bright and bubbly, though incredibly dim witted Lorelei Lee, a showgirl waves of white blonde hair and a love for diamonds. It was clear to the detective and his loyal partner that convincing anyone that such an innocent seeming creature could have performed such a grotesque task would practically be impossible. Of course they were correct. Until she too disappeared with every stone she had been given.

Coward, on the other hand, was attracted to a different sort of woman, Miss Rosalie Swann was dark (both in appearance and nature), mysterious and calculating, relying on her obscurity to completely capture his once believed nonexistent heart once he had set his sights on the devious beauty. He had also been the one man to last longer than a few nights after the wedding, longer than a week even, one may believe that the malevolent Black Widow had finally met someone she could not bear to lose, and for a short time they had been right, during a time of weakness she considered a life with Coward; she figured that if anyone could understand the appeal to the life of a known criminal it would have been him. Though it only lasted at most four days until her greed overpowered her lust, and he was found, limp and cold, beaten and slashed and left to decay in the middle of an alleyway with dried blood smeared across his neck and face, and his bedroom (having been the most common of rooms in which the men had spent their last moments) but for the untidy clutter the bedding had been left in (as well as include the not uncommonly added thick specks of a once white substance)was otherwise clean and orderly.

And now she sat in the comfortable, however not particularly luxurious apartment, peering once more with a sinister smile over her scarlet painted lips, at her hands, mindlessly playing with the precious diamond around her slim finger, before turning her gaze to her own reflection and replacing an identical, albeit blue, jewel around her neck, and pushed a fallen lock of dark black hair behind her ear with a menacingly arched eyebrow. Then, sending a sardonic kiss to the picture of her latest victim set in front of her, she stood from her perch to leave the confines of her temperate home for the darkening evening streets with a quiet, yet looming chuckle.


	4. Chapter 3

**So it's been quite a while since my last update, two reasons for that, I've been quite busy lately with resumes and work and things like that, and two, the internet connection on the laptop I use is being an inconsistent beach, so I might have to use my mum's laptop for updates. But anyway, for making you all wait, this chapter here is quite a along one, and you know, watching A Game of Shadows has got to be one of the best sources of inspiration ever! So you know, if you want to leave a review and let me know what you like/don't like about this story, or even just PM to let me know that you're reading this, that would be most appreciated**

**Disclaimer - I don't own anything from Sherlock Holmes, I really really wish I owned Sherlock...**

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><p>By the time the two men had arrived, a half hour later than the woman's prearranged time, she was seated at an otherwise empty table, apparently waiting for their appearance before eating (though not before drinking, as she'd had been a newly refilled glass of champagne) with her hair now left to fall past her shoulders, and donning a dress of emerald green.<p>

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr Holmes. I must admit I was beginning to think you would not show up," she smiled, but she did not stand from her seat, but rather offered for Holmes and Watson to take their place in front of her (or in Watson's case beside her).

"Had I been given the choice the wait would not have been rewarded with the tiniest speck of concern for such an evening," Holmes began, staring at the woman without daring to reveal his growing interest. "However, as you had so boldly made clear I did not. And as my dear friend has informed me – as if I had not already known, I must treat this night as I would any which I had willingly accepted, and yourself as I would an equal. Regardless of whether I think of you as an incorrigible harpy."

He turned his gaze between her and Watson, his brow furrowing ever so slightly at the unexpected remaining smirk she sent him, though his air of professionalism never faltered. "I do apologize for our needlessly long delay. Had Watson been dressed appropriately we may have arrived early,"

"Had I known that I would be accompanying you, rather than being told minutes before you are set to leave, I would have had myself prepared long before you, Holmes," Watson remarked, seeming to be in no mood for the older man's cantankerous mannerisms.

"I must say, Mr Holmes, that I agree," the woman cut in before Holmes could start another of his arguments, "I was under the impression that this would be kept private."

"Of course, Dear," he assured, "I have not allowed invitation to anyone but those necessary. You have made it perfectly known that you have vital information on our most recent, and most ruthless case yet," he looked to Watson with a smile which had meant to be comforting, but had appeared almost mocking, "So undoubtedly my beloved colleague would be here with me now...Honestly, what kind of a man do you think I am?"

"I would answer, however such language spoken whilst in the company of a lady would not be courteous, nor accepted whilst in the company of a gentlemen," Watson stated, his eyebrow arched in a mocking smile, until he turned a newly straightened face to the woman. "From what I hear you have a grand knowledge of our current case, and perhaps a number from the past."

"You have a way with sweet-talk, Doctor," she replied with a smile, "I have been following your cases for quite some time. I must say, Mr Holmes, I am impressed, it is clear you take a great deal of pride in your work, perhaps with a greater skill than our police."

It was obvious that the woman's kind words flattered him, and with a small crooked smile he chuckled lightly, "Without question, if it weren't for my part in the inspectors' cases more than half of London's crooks would not be locked away."

"As I have heard, if it weren't for you, walking these streets would be the average man's death wish."

With a raised brow she continued, staring at the older detective now with concern, "But as it has been made all the more obvious, you have found yourself caught at a dead end with this Black Widow, with no knowledge as to your next move. And that is where I have come to help. However it will be under my own non negotiable conditions, and if they are not met you will remain in your unknowledgeable state."

Holmes did not speak as his dark eyes raked over her, leering in contempt, studying her every move to find anything that could have proven her untrustworthy. Throwing his arms to the table when he could not. "Name your terms."

Her lips curled into a pleasant smile, "I only have one, simple enough. I wish to help you identify the Black Widow."

For a time both Holmes and Watson were silent, wondering whether they had heard her correctly. Watson out of shock that anyone, let alone a woman would willingly choose to work alongside Holmes, and the very detective confirming to himself that there was no value to this woman in which he enjoyed being around.

It was Watson who answered her first, "Excuse me, Miss...?"

"Charlotte Cunningham," she raised her hand, however, lowering it not one second later when realizing that neither man was going to take it.

"Miss Cunningham. Surely you understand our reasons for not accepting your offer, having not met you until hours ago..."

"I assume you would want partial credit in the finding of this terrible fiend," Holmes finally spoke up, interrupting his younger colleague, eyeing this Miss Cunningham without so much as a blink.

"I don't see why not, it will be because of my part that you will find her."

"I do not allow just anyone into my most prized areas of expertise. But of course you already know that," as if to add insult to his injurious remark, the smile Holmes had sent her was of sheer condescension, and it had remained upon him while he continued, "I can think of nothing worse than having to tolerate someone with such an impeccable lack of proficiency, much less when they appear to care about their own appearance above all other things." With that, an arrogant chuckle had erupted from his belly as he cocked a disbelieving brow at the woman, "You would have to be mentally ill to believe such things, _Miss Cunningham_."

"A preference which I agree with wholeheartedly, Mr Holmes, and one that I also have followed."

The fact that her calm demeanour not once faulted under his open dislike concerned Holmes, this woman was clearly not someone to be trusted, and she was obviously a danger to any man who may be so unfortunate enough to be near. She was far too like... "But on the contrary, I would think that I have shown my worth. I have followed you and your associate, for many years now, with both being none the wiser. Discovering your identity, although somewhat difficult with the limited picture for more memorable imagery, had otherwise been successful in a matter of months, two if my memory is correct. And obviously I was able to find both you and Dr Watson, as well as your dear room which you have habituated within." With a smug smirk, her blue eyes flickered to Watson, who, as ever the gentleman, began to lighten toward her, and impressed by her mentioned accomplishments, which did little else but feed her pride. "If that is not what you require in an accomplice I must say I see why you have not found your killer. No offence intended toward you of course, Watson."

With a stiffened lip, and an undesiring, yet poised, glower, Holmes sighed, irritated by Charlotte's bold persistence, and becoming more so by the second. But before he was given the chance to once again bring up another reason to refuse her proposal, and before Watson, who had meant to respond to her unanticipated insult, could brush it off as a mere blunder, she spoke over them again.

"Surely you understand that a woman thinks and acts differently to a man," she started, "a woman takes her whole heart in account, acting out of a variety of emotional guidance, where, from what I have seen, a man is driven by a single desire for it. We may not share an equal physical strength, Holmes, but we are more than equally matched by our minds and using them to our advantage." Again, turning her gaze to the intrigued Watson, and placing her hand upon her chest, she made to finish her point, "You must have realised by now that you are no closer to capturing your target than when you started..."

Unwilling to admit but the smallest bit of meek embarrassment necessary, Holmes allowed a sheepish frown appear upon his otherwise unimpressionable person. A move which Charlotte brought upon herself to note. "A man's plans may not be similar to that of a woman, and without a woman's perspective you could find yourself with countless dead ends before finding your mark. So, what would the great Sherlock Holmes prefer?"

He hesitated, but with irritated reluctance, eventually gave his naive answer, "Very well! You may have your wish, so long as I have constant vigilance of your every move until you have my full trust."

"Pray tell how you see to have an endless watch over me?" she inquired, finally letting go of her proud pedestal – even just for that one bit of confusion.

"Why, you will be staying with Watson and myself, dear. Provided you behave accordingly."

At that she was taken aback, hoping to find even the faintest hint of humour in his piercing gaze. Alas, she could find none.

"And where do you propose I stay while in the company of two men?" she inquired, a quizzically raised eyebrow now taunting him,

"You will have your privacy, of course. Seeing as we have no third bedroom, I am certain Watson would be more than obliged to offer his own to such a _lovely_ lady."

"Mine? Holmes..." Watson then choked, momentarily gagging on his own breath, though Holmes had taken little notice to the younger man's discomfort, "Why is it that you must hand over my belongings before even considering it for your own?"

"Do pardon my dear Watson's ignorance, it seems he has suffered a sudden bout of dementia – it is well known that you are far more considerate than myself, and all the more likely to forget yourself at the bat of a lady's eye." Holmes remarked, light hearted, and meaning the comment as bittersweet cajolery. "Or would you rather I take comfort within the confines of your office. To which I will then have perfect ease in retrieving your poorly hidden solutions, should the time arrive for another of my experimentations. I believe you have several which remain unused."

Realizing the truth to the detective's last statement, and leaving his fists to clench upon his lap – rather than giving in to the tempting urge to strike Holmes – Watson simply stared at the infuriating man and his manipulative grin in contempt. Though his glare gradually faded when Charlotte had caught his interest once again.

"As you wish, Mr Holmes. But, for now, as you can see it is getting rather dark, and late is the hour where the most dangerous of fiends become most devious," Charlotte spoke, resuming her complacent manner, and standing to her full height while nodding a curt thanks toward the two men, "so if there are no further questions I shall be seeing you tomorrow, early in the evening."

She had made to leave them, but before she could turn her back Holmes had, once more, interrupted her thoughts.

"The names that you have sworn to reveal...?"

"Will be given no sooner than when we meet tomorrow evening," she said, an arrogant smirk taking place over her features as she reclaimed the upper hand, "if not only to ensure you honour our agreement. However, until then, I bid you and your partner farewell."

With that, this attractive woman, although without doubt a persuasive mousetrap, gave Holmes one last frank wink and took her leave. Whereas Holmes on the other hand, had a good deal of his attention drawn to the lone man, who had been eyeing Charlotte from the moment they had entered the building with a familiar suspicious glare, rather than the confusion, as well as the damned mixed signals, this thriving vixen would often send him.


	5. Chapter 4

**I gotta say I loved writing this chapter, just for the fact I got to say the words 'old cock', yep I'm that immature hahaha. Hopefully this makes up for the little bit long wait. If not let me know and I'll try to do you proud next time.**

**Disclaimer - I don't own anything from Sherlock Holmes, I do however own a big big obsession with Robert Downey Jr ^_^**

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><p>"Watson!" The distant yell from the study had once again kept Watson from an otherwise peaceful slumber, there were few things the young doctor wished for, but he had hoped to have himself at least one night's decent rest before he would soon be forced into his study, to which he would be much more difficult for him to find enough comfort. A foolish thing really, to hope for even a moment of peace while living with a man as erratic and vain as Holmes.<br>"Watson!"  
>It was still dark out when his eyes groggily opened, and the air was brisk when his bare feet were put to the floor, and his night gown wrapped around his shoulders.<br>"WATSON!" He'd found the detective lounging in an armchair, wide awake, and twiddling with the bow to his violin between his hands.

"What is it this time, Holmes?"  
>"I have come to a conclusion regarding Miss Charlotte Cunningham," Holmes began, keeping his sight straight ahead. "Having been studying the unreliable and unscrupulous habits of both the woman and the unnamed man preoccupied with the very core of her being, my deductions have become rather...sinister."<p>

Rubbing his eyes in hope that the action would awaken him even that little bit more than he had been, Watson approached his older friend, glad that he had been thoughtful enough to at least light a small fire in the hearth.

Not until then did Holmes look over at him, and only then realised the full state of his weariness, "You're exhausted, Watson, it is clear that I have aroused you from well needed rest..." his blank expression was either because of his knowledge that Watson would then protest, or because of his being uncaring that he had awakened him, though which the younger man did not know.  
>"If I had the choice I wouldn't have answered your calls." He sat himself across from Holmes, while doing anything he could think to keep himself fully aware, and curiously beckoned for the detective to continue. "So, what is this theory you have found?"<p>

"If you had noticed the man directly across from us, I must admit at first glance I believed him to be a nobleman, but after careful consideration I realised that he was anything but a gentleman," to express himself, he gestured with his bow to the younger companion. "Even from the slight distance his yellowing fingernails and ill remnants of teeth; both ugly symptoms of an addict, would be clear to Scotland Yard's most inept inspector, as well as the feint scarring on his face. Most prominent of which running from his right eye, the result of an extensive drunken brawl."  
>With every word Holmes spoke with an air of self earned satisfaction, pausing briefly to light his pipe and release a drag of smoke.<br>"Any bit of knowledge that someone of the like would hold would inevitably be as sordid as their appearance leads you to believe."  
>"Do you think Miss Cunningham knows something she shouldn't?"<br>"If not it is possible that the dear Charlotte has become a threat by some mistake of her own, now making the lady a danger not only to herself but to those she has associated."

With a deep sigh and a questioning roll of his eyes, Watson then studied the detective in disdain, watching as he twisted his bow between his fingers, 'Have you been up for all this time only to think of a reason not to work with her?"  
>"On the contrary, old cock, if Miss Cunningham were to stay with anyone it would be safest, and most wise for her to be with us."<br>"I thought you didn't like her..."  
>"As it appears I have had a change of heart. Cunningham is far too spiteful and must learn to hold her tongue to be tolerated. However, her intelligence is appreciated – opposed to the excruciating ignorance of the usual client. I could use a lady such as herself as a little project, so to say..." He was muttering, as though the very thought of examining the woman closely and putting her through countless strange observations had brought him into an overwhelming daze, staring out into the empty space at his front. Until Watson finally broke his apparent trance.<p>

"A project? Holmes, Miss Cunningham isn't one of you overly complicated trinkets."  
>At the mention of his most prized – and oftentimes difficultly configured – gadgets being deemed as lowly as a 'trinket', Holmes looked to have been somewhat offended.<br>"My inventions are simple enough for those clever enough to fire a weapon, but that is beside the point. By the way, you seem to be quite taken by Miss Charlotte. I hold no blame in you losing interest in Mary, if one must have a wife it would be best they not be insufferably feminine. Nor one who would lose their use after time-"  
>"Let's not mistake politeness with desire, shall we?" Watson then snapped, "I care for Miss Cunningham no more than the next woman, that does not mean that she deserves any less respect...besides, I would think that you in fact are the one who has grown fond of the woman," with a widening grin the doctor lent forward a little in his seat, propping his elbow up onto the arm of his chair and holding his chin against his palm, "You haven't been able to think of anything else for hours."<p>

At the mention of this Holmes' face fell, "I will admit she is not as bothersome as others who I have worked with. But I will not mention anything more until I have established that she is not a burden."  
>With that he stood before the window, picking up the long strand of black hair which Watson hadn't noticed, eyeing it intently, even going so far as to sniff it for a short minute. "The plot thickens. But if Charlotte is as worthwhile as she so confidently proclaims, once she has made her arrival we will be one step further in the Black Widow's unmasking."<p>

He quickly turned to face the younger man again, an almost excitable rush suddenly racing throughout him as he took in an urgent breath, "I must say this ordeal has made me rather giddy, my dear Watson, our murderer is just beyond reach. I can almost feel her caught between my fingers as we speak... The game is afoot."


	6. Chapter 5

***gasp* What's this? An update from me? So sorry I haven't updated in ages and ages, you have a stuffed up laptop and terrible writer's block to thank for that. Like awful writer's block, not knowing how I wanted to phrase things and everything in between. But not to worry! I'm officially 100% back! Hopefully you haven't all given up on this story.**

**Disclaimer - I don't own anything from Sherlock Holmes, everything from the stories belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and everything from the movies belong to Guy Richie.**

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><p>Panic was not something that the Black Widow was familiar with, she had known that he would be her equal, therefore her most difficult to capture. Add insult to injury as far as he was known he was completely devoid of any emotion other than utter contempt and displeasure. She knew that he would take more convincing to trust her entirely, and she was determined to do so. But Sherlock Holmes was, at least in her mind, the most unreadable man of London, perhaps the whole of England, and that knowledge left her...shaken? No, that wasn't enough to describe it. She was well and truly stricken. Panicked.<p>

Yet somehow she managed to keep herself still and calm, enough to remain confident in her plans and will herself into continuing with them.

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><p>There wasn't much that could render Charlotte distressed, but for the sighting of one old acquaintance, of which being known on unstable and tumultuous terms. She never spoke of him; she never needed anyone's help with the matter. And it had been quite the wait since she had seen him.<br>However in the early hours of the evening, during her journey to her most recent living arrangement, she was hoping that her head was playing tricks on her, or at the very most she had seen a man who appeared fantastically similar to the rogue in question. But there he was; within the crowds of the street.

Though she had slipped by the blonde msn undetected this time, Charlotte was well aware that it was only a matter of time that he will find her again. He _always_ found her. No more than one quick flash of his scarred face, and the moment that lasted no longer than seconds where she prayed their eyes had not met, and the cab seemed to become tense and stuffy from her inflamed nerves.

But she reapplied a calmed appearance upon her features; in hopes that she could make some escape, or at least hide herself away before he could show his face again, as she carried her bags to the door of her new home. And replaced it with a pretty smile at the kind doctor's greeting.

"Good evening, Doctor."  
>A look of surprise graced him at first, but shortly after he had recognised the young woman a handsome smile had spread across his lips, "Miss Cunningham. I was beginning to wonder when you would be making your arrival."<br>Opening the door wider, the young man stepped to the side, motioning for Charlotte to come inside, though not before turning his eyes over her shoulder with narrowing brows.  
>The younger woman followed his gaze, turning back to look out toward the sidewalk, immediately wishing she hadn't, however, once seeing the very man which she had tried to rid herself of since she was no more than twenty. He had slowed his pace considerably as he passed her, only taking his eyes from her every few steps, to give her a small smile along with a slight nod of his head.<p>

"Someone you know?" She was thankful for Watson for pulling her back from the sullen memories pouring their way from the deepest parts of her mind, she knew that the elder man would make his return, once he discovered her latest sanctuary he would never give her any peace, and she hated him for it. But she tried her best to hide her dejection and turned the corner of her mouth into a poorly feigned grin, causing Watson to pause briefly in his thoughts.  
>"A pain in the backside, as I would rather put it. But all in good time."<br>And then, as she stepped inside the warm house, the cheer suddenly erased all signs of her contempt, as though there had been no older gentleman to begin with. "Will Mister Holmes not be giving a proper greeting then? That is a pity."  
>"No, no. All chores are far too distracting for Holmes to pay them any attention. He will come out for dinner or a show, but otherwise spends the majority of his days locked away in his room," he answered her slowly, with a small and awkward sounding laugh; confused as to the swiftness of her changing moods and concerned for her well being; followed by a long sigh towards the firing of a gunshot from upstairs. His voice then dripping with sarcasm afterwards, "You will grow used to his perks, Miss Cunningham. I assure you."<p>

"Oh please, Watson," she protested, as politely as the young lady could muster, as the young doctor offered to help with the last of her bags, "if we are going to be so close then I much prefer we forget all of this 'Miss' business. I never did care for the matter with close friends."

"The proximity of our believed 'friendship', Cunningham, rests upon your shoulders I'm afraid. Whether you decide you can keep yourself managed and control your petty manner."

A coy smile quickly turned over Charlotte's blood red lips, while Watson appeared anything but the like, when the familiar low voice was heard from upstairs. So her _pettiness_was proving itself to be a burden to Sherlock already? But she had only just begun her little game. "Yes, thank you for reminding me, Sherlock." Her grin only broadened, cat-like, at the clear signs of the detective's aggravation at the improper use of his given name, "But you needn't bother, I do remember your rules. How could I ever forget anything that Sherlock Holmes has so generously shared with me?"

Yes, I often find myself pondering over the goings on with a vapid brain. Should the worst come upon us perhaps yours could finally come of some use to me."

Whatever the two men were expecting from the girl after that obnoxious remark, it was undoubtedly not a joyous chuckle. Her eyes automatically brightening in delight at Sherlock's haughty words.  
>"Oh, good show, Sherlock. Be a bit more courteous, though, and I might be very much useful -"<br>"Is there a reason you've decided to make an appearance outside of the armoury?" Watson cut in, figuring their latest clash could wait until a later hour.  
>"The name."<p>

"The name?" Charlotte raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the detective,  
>"As we agreed. I have come across every possible idea, without it I have hit a dead end."<br>"Yes, and without me you will be doomed to remain helpless," she replied, a superior smirk now crossing her as she allowed Watson to lead her upstairs. Calling back after pushing past him and continuing alone, six simple words which sent the older man's metaphorical head spiralling, "You remember Joanna Edwards, don't you?"


	7. Chapter 6

**So the last review mentioned that Sherlock was being an ass to Charlotte, and I've been thinking it's about time they had a happier moment. So here it is! Sort of. Also, thank you to my one reviewer! They all keep me in the writing mood :D**

**Disclaimer - I don't own anything from Sherlock Holmes, everything but Charlotte belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and Guy Richie**

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><p>"Joanna Edwards?" Charlotte had gotten surprisingly far before Sherlock was to catch up with her, she had made it through the opened doorway to Watson's before he had begun his chase, and was now arranging the few belongings she had already unpacked atop the desktop against the wall. Most peculiar of which being the small locked box she carefully placed in the centre, a box which Charlotte was caught staring at with a curious hint of emotion.<p>

"The failed actress?"  
>"Yes."<br>"A friend of yours? No. If she were you would not have been so eager to hand her over...How is it you know her?"

"At most Joanna is an acquaintance," Charlotte began, letting out a distasteful groan, "She has a brother, Peter, who had an extraordinary childish infatuation with me. Our parents were close. We were raised together. The last I had seen either sibling would have to have been eight years ago, the night before my nineteenth birthday."

She pushed the first of her emptied bags to the side of the room to put away once she was finished, and opened the next to bring out the numerous dresses she had with her. Some much less casual than others. "I assume the wardrobe is free?"  
>"Yesyes. Why is it you no longer speak with Miss Edwards?"<br>Unknowingly she had the corner of her mouth turned up high into a smile of amusement over the man's impatience; the first of which Sherlock had seen that was not over any misfortune upon him, while slowly hanging each bit of clothing, one by one.

"We had grown up together, but we didn't necessarily like each other. Joanna was a jealous brat who was prone to overreacting when she didn't get her own way. Given she was useful as a reason to leave when circumstances lead to a man's eye. Although I am one year younger it was Joanna who was the least mature." Charlotte turned round to him, now leaning against the wall by the end of the desk.  
>"Her parents died when she was sixteen, Peter was then given guardianship over her. But even then she would be jealous that he would give me more attention when the three of us were together. No matter how often I tried to convince her I was not interested.<br>"At twenty she left her home, with dreams of becoming an actress. That was the last I had seen of her or her brother."

With a slight chuckle Charlotte delightfully continued, "I kept a constant ear out for any news about her, however – as any loving friend would," she said to Sherlock, "Peter took her in when she – fell from grace."  
>Looking to the older man, watching him with intent while he carefully memorized every detail, the young woman sat herself on the end of Watson – or as it was to be known for now her bed, a small thoughtful smile across her face.<br>Of course Charlotte had known of Sherlock's quirks, most of all his preference for exact knowledge, but to actually experience one of his interrogations was much more intriguing than she had expected. He was different now than he was socially, perfectly comfortable in his line of work. Happy even.

"Peter died the following year, from what I have been told he put a revolver in his mouth in the spring."  
>For a minute Sherlock had moved his gaze onto the more meaningless of Charlotte's belongings, but other than that quick minute his attentive eye never left the woman. "You appear to be quite knowledgeable of someone you claim to have lost contact with."<br>"We were practically joined at the hip when we were children, as I said. It goes without question that we would share a number of friends. Most of which I still hear from."

He took note when her smile then faltered slightly to a look of fear, following her gaze out the window to see the familiar marked face of his blonde man.

"Now if that is all, if you will allow me to get comfortable," Charlotte started, standing in an attempt to usher the detective out the door. "You men are lucky to not have to wear a corset. They become an awful pain."  
>"One last thing, Dear." He said, spinning himself to face her before he could be moved too far, "You say you received unwanted attention. Quite a bit I would presume. A man's eye can be stolen for a number of reasons, do put my mind at rest, would you?"<p>

Stepping closer to Sherlock, considerably closer than she had placed herself the night they met. Charlotte brought a hand to his shoulder, running her fingers down the edge of his shirt in a teasing manner. A move which was far from natural to him.  
>"I misbehave," she purred, eyes gazing directly into his, "I have been <em>very<em> naughty. And I have made terrible mistakes."

"Pray tell these terrible mistakes of yours," his once professionally kept tone now laced with excitement over the believed lethal matter.  
>At this she was taken aback, no longer confident and seductive as she had been moments ago, "Sherlock, I must protest. I'm sure they wouldn't give you much help."<br>"On the contrary, my dear. You of all people, excluding myself of course, would know that it is the smallest detail that provides the most help. Every bit of information is most certainly needed."

"Unless it has nothing to do with the case at hand,"  
>"In which case you would have no reason to be worried with the secret becoming known,"<br>"Instead I would be worried that a long kept secret has been unnecessarily told."

With her arms crossed, Charlotte sent the man a stern eye, neither child making a sound as she silently willed Sherlock to leave her be.  
>"You aren't going to give me any peace until I've told you."<p>

"Why are you so persistent in keeping it to yourself? Traumatic accident turned lethal injury against a loved one perhaps?" She knew what he was doing; he was testing her patience, winding her up, and from her shaken nerves and moistening eyes Charlotte was now fighting back he knew it. The clever bastard.

"I fell in love with a man I shouldn't have..."  
>That answer had not expected, from what Sherlock had seen love and romance is the one thing in life women have spent years searching for, and he found himself sympathetic, because he knew the grief that ordeal can cause.<br>He should apologize, that much he knew, but words of sentiment undoubtedly were not his strong point. The young women left him speechless.

"You're a brilliant man, Sherlock. But you just don't know when to stop prying." With that she lead him out, and he let her – because he hadn't yet seen her angered and it was not something he would like to – closing the door the second he was out of its way before he could say anything more.


	8. Chapter 7

**Guh, SO sorry it's take so long for me to update, life's been fucking up so much for me the last few months with me trying to find work and friggen guy problems. And then nothing was working for this chapter, but I'm still not sure if I'm really happy with the ending. Either way, I updated, it's done, and this really sort of slowly starts everything up.**

**Disclaimer - Everything from Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and Guy Ritchie. Charlotte and the story however are mine.**

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><p>When Watson had next seen Sherlock, the man was notably contemptuous, it wasn't often he was this...quiet. And the younger doctor knew exactly what had brought this out of him.<br>"What happened this time?"  
>"Apparently I pry too much..." is all he said, narrowing his eyes slightly in thought,<br>"You are a marvel at first impressions, Holmes." Watson remarked with a small shake of his head.  
>"Have I ever done so with you, Watson?" he asked.<br>"Consistently."

Though the numerous quirks which Sherlock threw at him were to be found as little less than a burden to the average person – that is, anyone other than the man himself – Watson could not keep the crooked smile from washing over him, "What is it you forced out of Charlotte then?"  
>"Never mind that, old boy," the detective answered, "there are more pressing matters at present."<br>"Oh?"  
>"She is lying..."<br>"Sorry?" The smile was gone, replaced by his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Cunningham. The woman is lying to us, Watson. There is something she is keeping to herself. At present she is no better than a wily snake...fallen in love with someone she should not have. Tell me, dear brother, what kind of a man could have broken our Charlotte's heart?" With tented fingers Sherlock appeared to have gazed off into a short distance.  
>"Too strong to allow an abusive lover...perhaps she had lost her heart to someone who could not look after her. Once she realised she would have to break off any engagements they were much too attached to cope with separation."<br>"Not everything is as complex as you make of it. Sometimes it is the most simple thought which is in fact the truth," Watson said, "with love I believe you'll find in most relations, that is the case."

"Someone she should not have...The wrong man, someone who would tarnish her family's name, or the reputation she has built for herself? A criminal? A gentleman plagued with stupidity? Immaturity...A Casanova of sorts?"  
>"If it was of any importance I'm sure she would have told us by now." Watson's reassurance, however, had fallen into deaf ears, he might as well not have been speaking to begin with, as the older man continued tapping his fingertips atop his lips. Having just now apparently given himself a rush of excitement, a move causing his younger companion to watch him with partial amusement as the emotionless detective smiled wickedly, "A woman perhaps? And the cold-hearted hands of the law tearing the two apart-"<p>

So caught up with their current points had they been that neither man noticed the quiet clicks of Charlotte's heels against the old, and occasionally creaking floorboards. "Wrong again I'm afraid. That's twice now, Sherlock. You're beginning to lose your touch."

Charlotte had changed, stripped down from her cinched gown to a looser, dull red dressing gown. Her hair had been let down, jet black locks left to dangle past her shoulders, as well as the apparent loss of her corset – seen through the slight natural curves of her waist. And her face, completely cleaned of her makeup. The woman was rather attractive, a pretty little thing, not only after spending prolonged moments in front of her mirror.

And Sherlock refused to allow himself anything longer than the short seconds of picturing her body being released from its laced prison as she positioned herself on the arm of his armchair. Although he had been uncertain as to the impish grin... Had they not just gone through a painfully aggressive quarrel last they had seen each other? Had it not ended when it did Sherlock was certain it would have quickly escalated and become physical on her part.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Perhaps she was leaving it behind her. Forgetting it in hopes for more tasteful settings. So, he returned her smile, though it was not nearly as frenzied as hers.

During this they kept their eyes on each other, piercing blue locked with dark brown, neither daring to be the first to lose their strange game. Watson had long since seemed to be forgotten.  
>It was then Sherlock decided that he was not so opposed to dear Charlotte Cunningham joining their project. She was mysterious, interesting, and damn entertaining to toy with. He admitted to himself (for he would never admit it out loud), it was possible that he liked her more than he'd expected.<br>However, the fact of the blonde rogue, and that small locked box of hers was to never leave him, hence he knew better than to trust Charlotte wholly.

"I know you don't trust me. The few hours I have had to myself I've been thinking. What if we did trust each other?" her eyes swept down to inspect some non-existent spec on her nails, before sweeping between the two men. "I'll tell you everything you need to know. And _only_ what you need to know. If there is no reason for me to speak of anything I will keep it to myself, but know that they are no more than innocent regrets from my adolescence."  
>Sherlock turned away from Charlotte then, contemplating this latest deal of hers, yet Watson had been the one to question it, "And anything we may ask you'd be willing to answer? Presuming it is within reason."<br>The woman shot a glance toward the younger man, her eyes suddenly taking on a sadder light, "Anything."

"Very well, Dear, we have an accord." With a newly found grin, Sherlock gave her a nod in agreement.  
>She gave a smile, however nerve racked it may have been, "Well, seeing as you have quite obviously been fretting over identifying the man who had stolen my heart I'll start there, shall I?" Charlotte said, "Theodore Hardey. Handsome, intelligent. American. He was a true gentleman..."<br>"Was?" That small specific had excited Watson's interest.  
>"I was barely twenty when I noticed his affections, and like a moth to a flame I was drawn to him. Despite the significant age difference. Darling Teddy was elder by twenty-four years." The woman had been sharing her attentions, turning to glance from Sherlock to Watson, "Unfortunately I was not the only woman who had caught his attentions. He had taken my innocence, but soon after left me for some red haired flirt. Four days after Theodore was found in his study, face down with a knife embedded in his back."<p>

Another sigh.

"Of course, jilted and heartbroken, I was the prime suspect. I left my home, and met a man who swore to my protection. So, not wanting to be thrown behind bars, I accepted his offer."  
>"What stranger offers a young woman his sworn protection at first meeting? Did it come at a price?" Sherlock enquired, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.<br>"Not exactly, he took me back to his home, told me not to leave until the stories ended, and until then he acted no less than any other respectable gentleman. Though somewhat possessive and ill tempered. I found I enjoyed his company too much to leave him when they did. Eventually, however, I grew weary of Brighton - having spent my whole life in one place - he did not, and so I packed what I could and ran during one of my days alone, here to London."

"And when he discovered your absence sent the blonde rogue to return you to him?" Watson finished for her.  
>"Yes."<p>

Leaning back in his seat and inhaling deeply, Sherlock concentrated his eyes on the woman, "You think this red haired girl may have committed Mr Hardey's murder?"  
>"Oh no," shaking her head rapidly, Charlotte dismissed it almost immediately, "I had only met her once, but there is no way the girl could have brought herself to kill him. All talk she is with everything but her morality."<br>"And Miss Edwards, she was acquainted with Mr Hardey?" Sherlock asked.  
>"Yes."<br>"But Miss Edwards could have brought herself to commit such an offence,"  
>"I believe so."<p>

"Do you think Theodore Hardey and the Black Widow's attacks could be linked?" Watson then asked the older detective,  
>"It's possible. Miss Edwards still resides in her brother's house I presume."<br>"The last I heard of her she was, it is not too far from my childhood home."  
>"Brighton, not but a train ride away," Watson said.<br>"Elementary, old boy, if Miss Charlotte is correct in her accusations, we may be able to stop the notorious Widow before another unfortunate sod loses his head. Literally," Sherlock remarked, returning his gaze to Charlotte, "Cunningham will lead the way – unless you find it too much of a bother that is, dear..."  
>"Not at all, Sherlock. Although, Joanna and myself are still icy toward each other, so perhaps I should stay a safe distance behind you during your interrogation."<br>With that, the older man pushed himself from his armchair, with lit eyes and a peculiar grin when he faced his younger companion, clapping his hands together and allowing a overconfident chuckle pass his lips, "There we have it. Watson, before we know it London's streets may be able to rest in peace again... Oh, my dear Watson, the game is afoot!"


	9. Chapter 8

**Ugh, I'm seriously kicking myself so hard right now! I had everything on my memory stick ready to go, and then somehow it gets moved from my shelf and now it's lost.  
>Anyway, I had quite a difficult time thinking of how to write Moriarty's introduction, and I quite like what I came up with in the end. Also, I've used Andrew Scott's Moriarty from BBC's <em>Sherlock, <em>because I feel like his portrayal fits better into the fic, he was easily my favorite Moriarty. And third, well, just look at him, he's absolutely gorgeous! So, as always, hope you lovely readers enjoy, reviews are always appreciated ^_^**

**Disclaimer - I don't own anything from Sherlock Holmes, neither do I own Robert Downey Jr, Jude Law or Andrew Scott. Believe me, I wish I did!**

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><p>It was half passed two, precisely three hours since Charlotte and Watson had both retired for the night, when Sherlock had taken his bottle from the corner of the mantel, and with it the syringe from its neat casing. Rolling back the sleeve of his left wrist, and adjusting the delicate needle, before finally thrusting its sharp point into its mark and pressing down the plunger, sinking back into his armchair when he felt the excitable effects the cocaine had upon his mind. Wanting to get all he could about Charlotte Cunningham, from what she had told him and what he'd been able to observe of the woman.<p>

She couldn't have been older than seven and twenty, never married, Miss Cunningham accepts nothing less than the finest of quality, of course she would not accept the proposal of any man who did not impress her. But fierce and unafraid to dirty her hands for her benefit, thus no doubt, creating a rather censorious relationship with mother and father – which, most likely, was met with an apology the woman did not mean and her 'appalling' behaviour continuing.  
>It was uncertain precisely how much time Charlotte... Miss Cunningham, would spend on her vanity, it was however, clear that the lady much preferred to look her very best at all times while accompanied. Although for a young woman of her wealth having been born into the higher class, it would be only natural.<br>But, the one characteristic that even the stupidest of minds could catch; Charlotte Cunningham's lack of true emotion. Or rather, choosing who would be lucky enough to witness her without the security and the mystery.

In some way or another she had told Sherlock all of this, still there was something more to her, something she kept hidden. Some treacherously alluring secret that he could not quite reach. With or without the cocaine further coursing through his veins.

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><p>He sat, perfectly poised but for his elbow propped upon the arm of his chair to bring his long fingers to his lip – facing the window of his private quarters, although not necessarily looking at anything in the London streets below – a small smirk playing across his handsome features and a brow that was threatening to quirk, as he softly hummed to himself, thoughtfully, without knowing.<p>

He'd seen her, walking the streets, day and night, always staying behind a number of feet away and always keeping within areas where she could easily remain unseen while following Holmes and his loyal lapdog. Undisguised she was this time around, and still just as pretty and dangerous as he remembered.

Always watching, but never chasing, not himself personally, technically, it would be idiotic to think that the woman would willingly follow should he be the one to do the physical work. No, no, he had his own 'John Watson' for that, to return her to him in any way possible – however, should he disturb one black hair on her pretty head, he would not be as concerned at being rid of his lapdog.

Closing his eyes, he sunk back into his seat, the smirk now an eager grin, beginning to think of just how he shall reunite with his dear little girl, when a knock upon his opening door disrupted him from his thoughts.  
>"Moran..." his velvety Irish accent echoing a little through the excessive space of the room, when he stood and turned to greet the man with a strange smile, to anyone who had not been accustomed to his changeable persona would have been perfectly frightening, "Good news I hope. We don't want another of your terribly avoidable mishaps."<br>"No, sir, Mista' Moriarty." A hand unwittingly raised to gently finger the long scar beneath the right eye of his roughened employee.  
>"So...?" Lifted eyebrows as he awaited his answer.<br>"She'll be going to Brighton in the afternoon. With Holmes."

With every minute James Moriarty's grin had grown more and more maniacal. Of course she could have the 'brilliant' Sherlock's trust, she could have the world believe anything she'd wish without the slightest bother. Each moment was just one step closer, and, at last, he could finally have his pet, safe and sound, leading his greatest enemy into his long awaited demise. The ecstasy and the anticipation lighting up his cold, black eyes.

"My dear, dear Moran," his voice calm, easy to have been mistaken as boredom while he was in fact quite the opposite, "I do believe that it will soon be time we pay darling Serena a little visit."


	10. Chapter 9

**This is so different to how I originally planned to go with this, but you know how it goes, you change your mind with later ideas and then before you know it you come up with a new plan that you like even more. As for Moriarty, I'm mixing in Jared Harris' and Andrew Scott's portrayals together, I'm going to be adding in the charming side of him from Jared's, making him seem a little more of a gentleman, but of course I'm keeping in the insanity and how he is just evil from Andrew's. And of course, the face character is Andrew's, because... damn!  
>Anyway! This chapter was my favorite to write so far... :P<br>And, as per usual, R and R please :D thank you so much for all of the lovely reviews I've gotten so far.**

**Disclaimer - I don't own anything from Sherlock Holmes, BBC's Sherlock, I seriously wish I did though.**

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><p>Silence is key for breaking in and out of someone's home late in the night, Charlotte had known this perfectly well, she'd spent the later years of her childhood sneaking about to see her older friends long after the hour she should have been in bed after all, it was all little more than a game to her.<br>The light from the men's study had come as a worrying surprise, however calmed when she found Sherlock worn down and out in his armchair.

She'd also known exactly where she would find Moran, and so - along with her trusted knife safely strapped around her thigh - careful as to not make any wrong step and liven any creaking from the stairway and floorboards, made her way to await the man's arrival. Although, not having to wait long before she was aware of his presence behind.

Charlotte turned into a small alleyway, and by the time Moran had followed, appeared to have vanished inside the shadow. Only making herself known when his back was turned to her, when she'd forced him against the wall, keeping sure to hit his head against the brick so as to stop any defensive blows he may throw. Face toward her, and knife held to his throat.  
>Her face staying the cold, angered glare when he had choked out a light chuckle.<p>

"You can kill me, but it won't stop 'im. Not 'til he 'as you."  
>"Perfect," a sinister smile then spreading over her features, causing Moran's awkward laugh to die, "as much as I would like to cut your throat, I'm not going to kill you."<br>She raised the knife's blade to press its edge gently to his cheek, "You're going to take me to him."

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><p>Moran had taken her further into the street, further than Charlotte had expected, he lead her into the market, stopping her at the lone cabbie, driver seated comfortably during his wait, leaning back and smoking his pipe. The carriage ride, however, was to take her back through the same way she had taken when she first arrived in London. Their journey finally ending at a rather large, grey looking house.<br>No surprises yet, Moriarty was always one for haughtier taste. And willing to take any measure in order to receive what he wanted, in fact most preferring those he is stealing from to give him a challenge, physical or emotional. It was more entertaining, he thought, more exciting. Charlotte could not say that she disagreed without it tasting a lie.

She had a partial anxiousness over how Moriarty would react when she was to walk through those big oak doors, he was terribly unpredictable; one minute acting the perfect charmer, the next, when you had taken a wrong move, the gentleman would become a tormenting monster, worse than a monster, hunting you before having your head like a beast. But he still had yet to show that particular fury toward her. Nevertheless, Charlotte took stride no less confident, if not only for the revolver that she'd been able to retrieve from Moran's waiting pocket, then the optimism that even after all these long years, Moriarty would still care for her.

Most certainly not someone to be trifled with, James Moriarty was a man who would have you skinned alive before you were to realise his anger, should he choose to hide it of course. He liked to play with his toys before letting them rest in peace. That had not been the case with Charlotte, however, who shared his enjoyment for toying with her playthings' emotions, their mind, their own sanity. And taking much fun out of playing with him. To a limit. Even Moriarty's dearest little pet had her boundaries that she was never to cross.

* * *

><p>He was just as she remembered the day she left, the night she first met him even. Still the tall, handsome, pale skinned threat with the black grin. Still able to make her heart flutter that little bit, and still able to make her skin crawl as it did through their first night of immoral debauchery.<p>

"My dear! Have you missed me? Our little game?" Oh yes, he was definitely the same James Moriarty who's embedded himself into Charlotte... no, not Charlotte, Serena, _his_ Serena... into the deep recesses of Serena's psyche. The excitable gestures, the upbeat tone, despite his words having no real reason to be so ecstatic.

She didn't answer him immediately, and, once he had motioned for Moran to leave them their privacy, Moriarty had taken advantage of her silence.

"I have enjoyed the show you've provided. That Lorelei, she is my favourite. I must admit it was rather enjoyable seeing you attempt to wear a tiara around your neck. 'How do you get it past your head?'" he retold one of her less informed quotations, imitating as best he could the breathy voice she'd then used.

A smug chuckle then came from her throat, "I am glad that I have approval, dear Jimmy. I do like to take it upon myself to impress the best in business, as you know."  
>"Oh darling, of course. I never expect anything but the unexpected with you." He moved closer to her front, but Serena had grown far too used to Moriarty staring dead into her eyes for her to feel the slightest unease.<br>"And I you... It has been seven years..."  
>"So it has," he made a significant sweep of his hand, as well as another of his maniacal smiles, to which she simply raised an eyebrow,<br>"And still the obsession with me? Why?"

He shrugged weakly, "I like you. You keep me from getting bored with the ordinary people, you always have several tricks up your sleeve that not even I can predict."  
>"You always have known how to attract poor, unsuspecting women with sweet talk.'<br>"Not at all!" Moriarty countered, "well, yes, I can make anyone do anything I could ever ask in the blink of an eye, with a little persuasion. But the way you have put it? No no no, only with you, my dear..."

Serena figured she would humour him with a laugh, giving him a proud smile, "...Unpredictable, you say?"  
>"Please, even the blindest of innocence could see it."<br>"Oh?" She took a step back, just the one, and raised Moran's revolver in one swift movement, pointing it directly at the middle of Moriarty's forehead, "What if I was to shoot you? Right now?  
>"What if I was to put a bullet into your brain, and another into Moran's when he returns to avenge your death? I could live the rest of my life with Holmes. He is quite admirable..."<p>

"_No_." He was becoming annoyed, after giving an irate laugh and a groan while rolling his eyes, "The flirting's over now. Daddy's had enough!"  
>He moved her arm to the side, just as easily as she had positioned it, taking a strong grasp around her wrist and pulling her back in, "You could put a bullet between my eyes, you could take you knife, here," he brought his free hand to pat her thigh where it was indeed replaced, "and plunge it right through my throat. You could torture me for however long you like. But you won't. We're on the side of the demons, you and I. We're a match made in heaven, you see. Setting the fires in hell."<p>

Freeing her wrist, Moriarty raised it to cup the side of her face, keeping her eyes fixed with his, the corners of his mouth turning up into an impish grin, "You haven't changed."

His grip upon her jaw intensified, fingers repositioning themselves behind her ear, holding her in place tight against him with his arm around the small of her back when his lips caught hers in a kiss. Fiery and domineering.

Serena found herself dropping the weapon she'd had not one moment ago aimed at his head, instead placing her hands against his chest. An involuntary gasp escaping from the back of her throat when his tongue broke through her lips, parting them, when he began devouring her. The release of a small portion of need she hadn't fully realised had been built up inside her, to feel his commanding touch exciting her very blood. Her desperation for another of their domination games.

"James," she managed to sigh, just above a whisper,  
>"Darling," he purred against her mouth.<p>

She breathed in, slowly, deeply, neither daring to pull even an inch apart. Again he took her mouth, kissing her hungrily, and she responded just as hungrily. Biting his lip as his fingers brushed down her cheek to curl around her throat, staring deep into his eyes, anticipation burning, flaring within them, teasing, tormenting, begging to feel more than wild kisses.

"Don't kiss me if you have no plans further," she breathed against him.

"Hmmm?" He leaned closer, thumbing her larynx. Speaking softly. That ever so soft voice, kind, gentle, loving, the soothing hush that lured prey unawares. "Speak up, lover."

"Take me."

With that aching need clear in her voice feeding his starve lust Moriarty backed her into the opposing wall, lifting her legs to his waist and standing between her thighs. The hand around her neck closing slightly while the other slipped beneath her dress. Teeth grazing the side of her jaw to bite the unoccupied side of her neck. Loud gasps erupting from her gaping mouth when his fingers found her.

She dragged her own thin fingers up his cheek, willing his to look at her. Breathing a barely audible "More," as he ground his hips into her.  
>He lifted her skirt, entering her in one full movement. His head falling to her breast with her arms firm around his neck and a hand held between the ends of his hair.<p> 


	11. Chapter 10

**Finally I've finished chapter 10! I've got to say I had a lot of fun writing it , you asked for more Sherlock, and more Sherlock I've given you. Oh, and after the next chapter I've decided to add in some Sherlock/Charlotte fluff! Also, I've been thinking of writing a few little one shots on each of the Black Widow's victims, so let me know whether you'd want to see them... And, as always, please review, they've all been so fantastic, keep them coming! :D**

**Disclaimer - Let's face it, if I owned Sherlock Holmes I wouldn't be writing this now... Everything you recognise belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and Guy Ritchie.**

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><p>"Have you been wicked, Sherlock?"<p>

Always one to prefer scientific reasoning, the detective had never been too fond of dreams, those, at least, of the ordinary man's idealistic mind. A world where anything could happen, no matter how illogical the idea may be? Preposterous!  
>He had much less liking for dreams of a more risqué nature.<p>

Sherlock had woken – in the early hours of the dawn – to a strange feeling, one that he had believed to be gladly done with since the deceitful Irene. Alone he was able to relieve the tingling inside his belly, and take his attention well away from the subject with the help of his violin.

It was proven to be more difficult with the object of his unfamiliar arousal sat in front of him within the rather tense train compartment. Albeit, covered much more modestly than she had been during that earlier image. Watson at his side of course, however lacking he may have been in soothing his predicament.  
>Watching him with an inquisitive eye no less, exhaustion evident in the feint lines under her eyes. He had attempted to concentrate on the passing sights outside of their window, however Charlotte's piercing gaze soon became far too intrusive to ignore.<p>

"Why are you looking at me with such intrigue, Dear?"  
>Her expression was quick to change from interest to a coy innocence. "Oh, I was only thinking to myself. Observing."<br>"Oh? Do share these thoughts..."

"You are aware of what people say of you, the rumours they spread?"  
>"Indeed, I have overheard several. Mere tales of a bored housewife, the lot of them." Sherlock scoffed,<br>"So you have heard of the name certain people have given you? 'The Virgin'."

There was a pause, during which the older man wondered that by some miraculous mistake, he had heard the woman wrong, that she, in fact, was not bringing up the intimate issue once more.  
>And, childlike again, a small choke had forced itself from him. "I – I have..."<p>

"And of course, such private matters would not be trusted, not unless you were to hear them from the man in question."

She gave a quiet hum, closing her eyes while slowly shuffling herself upon her seat and gently stretching her neck. "I was wondering whether they were true. Have you ever had a woman?"  
>Another choke, as well as a widened eyed stare of Watson's surprise and a discomforted cough from the younger doctor, a notion which Charlotte had easily caught.<p>

"Have you and _John -_" Shock and disdain darting between the two men as Charlotte kept herself from announcing the unsavoury act. Both were quick to deny those particular accusations.  
>"No! No, no, no – I am to be married, actually," Watson awkwardly stumbled over his words.<br>"Oh! I do apologise!" the woman cried, bringing an embarrassed hand to her breast, "I meant no offense..."

"Yes, well, in answer to your question, as I have said these rumours are no more than meaningless stories. I undertake only what is necessary, but there is nothing of interest to me whatsoever in petty desires."  
>"That is a shame," Charlotte sighed, corner of her mouth turning into a sympathetic smile, "for such a handsome man to leave himself unattended. I must say, should I be so lucky, I would not waste such an opportunity."<p>

Flashes of desire, of kisses, of sweat ridden flesh were then unable to stop when it came to her added subtle seductive gaze. And so, clenching his fists and quietly gulping, Sherlock decided instead to distract these desirous thoughts – as a most discomforted Watson had quite clearly been failing – rather than to simply rid himself of them.

"You're exhausted, it is not an attractive look for you."  
>"You find me attractive when I am not sleep deprived?"<br>"Regardless. You also have your dreadfully sharp tongue, it makes you quite difficult for a companion." He gave a weak grin, so as to show that his intentions were not of aversion. Again Charlotte's eyes were beginning to droop, but still she returned the gesture.  
>"Oh, come now, from what I have seen and all that Watson has spoken of you I would say that you are much less tolerable than I. Is that not so, dearest John?"<br>"Believe me, Charlotte, you have not seen the worst of him,"  
>"There you have it, we should be as thick as thieves. We could be closer than we both could imagine..."<p>

Turning a quick gaze between the two men, and their unwavering stare, Charlotte was quick to realise their unspoken question. "James Moriarty."  
>Her feigned terror was effortless to the woman, no more than child's play.<br>"He is after me. He won't rest until he has found me, I cannot have any peace of mind until I am done away with him."  
>Quick to trail the few tears she had needed, and all the more sudden to both Sherlock and Watson having never seen Charlotte so distraught.<br>"You will not let him take me?" Animosity hidden behind the youthful vulnerability, "You mustn't. Although he has never intentionally hurt me, I fear Moriarty may not be so courteous with his fury at my betrayal..."  
>Sherlock's face had then softened, though still hawk-eyed as ever and reading every bit of this current anxiousness.<br>"I give you my word of honour that I shall do everything in my power to assure your safety, my dear. God Himself could not intervene."

Angst gradually dulling to a relaxing state, the woman leaned back into her seat, a smile appearing once more, though now with a genuine gratefulness at this supposedly inhuman man's humanity, however brief he was to reveal it to her.

"Do you have any knowledge to Moriarty's current lodgings?" Watson then inquired.  
>"He would be in London, staying as close as he can without giving his whereabouts away. Alas, his exact location I do not know. He has kept each of his houses – Moriarty would never think to lose something so valuable – and he could be in either one...<br>"But I must warn you, do not underestimate him. Don't mistake him for any mere criminal, he is just as brilliant as you are, Sherlock, he is without moral and boundaries. And I must point out, you have taken his most prized possession; you have placed a bounty upon your own head against the most dangerous criminal of England without even realising."  
>"Alas, I have sentenced my own fall by stealing something I had no enthusiasm to possess," the older man confessed in mock sorrow.<br>Charlotte stared at him, the corner of her mouth upturning into an unenthusiastic smile, "This is no time to be joking, Sherlock, you have made an enemy of a man who even you would struggle against,"  
>She had made a child of him again, one of which he knew that he had been troublesome, and a rather dejected huff of a chuckle had come from him, "We shall see about that."<p> 


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